


young blood, stand and deliver

by vachement



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Jaskier is a hopeless romantic, Jaskier is a little shit, M/M, Pining, Sassy Jaskier, Swordfighting, geralt teaches jaskier swordfighting, thats it thats the fic, they work out their sexual tension with pointy objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vachement/pseuds/vachement
Summary: Jaskier was strongly considering gagging himself for the rest of time, if he was being very honest. While he’d hate to rob the world of his music, at least he wouldn’t be talking himself into stupid,stupidsituations.Geralt stood behind him, close enough that the heat radiating off of his body warmed Jaskier to his core. It was his sword in Jaskier’s grip, and his hands directing Jaskier on how to swing.“Use your whole body,” he instructed quietly. “Not just your arms.”Jaskier gave it a halfhearted try, losing his footing with the force of it. Geralt caught him before he could hit the ground, of course, but he felt more undignified than usual, and that was saying something.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 527





	young blood, stand and deliver

**Author's Note:**

> do i know anything about swords, fighting, or swordfighting? no. did i look anything up? also no. take the details with a grain of salt, i'm lazy.
> 
> title is from "raise hell" by dorothy
> 
> enjoy!

Jaskier wasn’t exactly known for his good decisions, but this had to be, without question, one of his worst. He wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up there, trying to keep his breathing even while Geralt gently (his Witcher was always so  _ gentle  _ with him) adjusted his stance with a strong hand on his waist.

Actually, that was a lie. Jaskier knew  _ exactly  _ what he’d done, and it, as usual, was directly correlated to his inability to keep his damn mouth shut.

_ “You need to learn to fight,” Geralt said out of nowhere while they were setting up camp for the evening. He didn’t look at Jaskier, but Jaskier could see the tense line of his shoulders. Jaskier knew what brought it on: he’d almost been eaten by their monster du jour earlier that day. “If you’re going to keep traveling with me, you need to learn to fight.” _

_ Jaskier scoffed. “Why would I need that, dear Witcher, when I have you around to protect me?” he asked loftily. The monster hadn’t even been that bad; the bite hadn’t even needed stitches! “And besides, I do know how to fight. I learned at Ox-” _

_ “Not the same thing,” Geralt interrupted. “Flailing a fencing sword around isn’t the same as knowing how to fight.” _

_ “You’re being oddly verbal,” Jaskier ignored him; he was right, anyway. “Did that monster get you with something? Are you cursed? Should I be getting help?” _

_ “ _ Jaskier _.” _

_ Jaskier huffed loudly. “I’m a  _ bard _ ,” he argued. “I really don’t need to learn how to use a sword. I prefer to make love, not war, anyway.” _

_ Geralt didn’t even grace him with a verbal rebuttal. “Hmm.” _

_ He was a  _ terrible  _ debate partner, in Jaskier’s humble opinion. It wasn’t like it was much of a debate, though; Jaskier would do anything Geralt asked of him, and they both knew it. So, with the most put-upon sigh he could manage, he set down his lute and walked over to where Geralt sat with his swords. _

_ “Care to start now, then?” _

Jaskier was strongly considering gagging himself for the rest of time, if he was being very honest. While he’d hate to rob the world of his music, at least he wouldn’t be talking himself into stupid,  _ stupid  _ situations. 

Geralt stood behind him, close enough that the heat radiating off of his body warmed Jaskier to his core. It was his sword in Jaskier’s grip, and his hands directing Jaskier on how to swing.

“Use your whole body,” he instructed quietly. “Not just your arms.”

Jaskier gave it a halfhearted try, losing his footing with the force of it. Geralt caught him before he could hit the ground, of course, but he felt more undignified than usual, and that was saying something. 

“What if, and consider this carefully before you answer,” he panted, stepping back into position. “We give up on this all together, mark it down as a failed experiment, and go back to our assigned roles? You swing the sword, I’ll write ballads about it, it’s perfect.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I’m trying to teach you lute. Oh, there’s an idea! Say, we can trade skills. How do you fancy learning the lute?”

“Jaskier. Swing the sword,” Geralt said, his tone brokering no argument. 

Jaskier swung the sword. 

“This is stupid,” he muttered, swinging it again. “I’m more likely to kill myself than any monster. No, the monsters would probably fall over laughing and kill themselves! Can monsters feel humor, Geralt?”

Geralt hummed noncommittally and brought a hand up to fix Jaskier’s stance. “Don’t hold the sword so far away from your body. It’s not poisoned.”

“Well, forgive me if I don’t want to cut off a limb,” Jaskier replied cattily, trying not to panic at the feeling of Geralt’s hands on him. His heart was beating faster than was strictly normal, he knew, and he hoped Geralt wouldn’t comment on it. “I’m still in favor of giving up, for the record.”

“Noted,” Geralt said gruffly, but Jaskier could hear the amusement in his voice, and tallied a mental point for making his Witcher smile. “Swing again. Stop being afraid of the sword. I won’t let you get hurt.”

Jaskier did his level best not to blush, but he felt the heat in his face and hoped it wasn’t as visible as he thought. Alternatively, he hoped Geralt remained as oblivious as he’d been for the past few years, give or take a little time, when Jaskier had realized that his attraction had blossomed into something a little deeper. Jaskier knew he had to deal with it, to nip it in the bud, because he couldn’t spend his life pining after someone who would never love him, but then Geralt would look at him with those golden eyes, or say something like he just did, and Jaskier would fall all over again.

Stupid heart, Jaskier cursed, always getting him in trouble. It was almost worse than his mouth. 

He was powerless to resist Geralt, though, like always, so he tried again with the sword. He put a little bit of effort into it, remembering the footwork he’d learned for fencing at Oxenfurt to keep him steadily on his feet. It was a better swing; he could feel it. 

“Good,” Geralt praised lowly. Jaskier gulped, wondering what that voice and those words would sound like in…  _ other  _ contexts. He shook his inappropriate thoughts out of his head as best as he could. He still hadn’t gotten a clear answer on whether or not Witchers could read minds. 

“Why, thank you,” he sniffed primly instead. He let the sword drop to his side. “But I’m done now. I think, possibly, my arms are going to fall off. If I wake up in the morning with no arms, Geralt, I’m going to be so angry.”

Geralt shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, the first outward sign Jaskier could identify of his agitation. “No,” he said. “Try it again. You have to be able to defend yourself, Jaskier.”

“Against angry spouses and parents? Yes,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “And I  _ can _ . But I don’t need to fight monsters. My job is to sit on the side and sing pretty while you do all the work. Come on, you can’t be backing out of our arrangement now!”   
  


Geralt’s eyes flashed. “You almost got  _ killed  _ today,” he spat, but Jaskier knew the venom wasn’t directed at himself. 

“But I didn’t!” Jaskier flailed for a moment, thinking. “How about this: if I beat you in a swordfight, you need to drop this. But if I don’t, I’ll train for as long as you want without complaining.” He paused. “That’s not realistic. Okay, with slightly less complaining. Deal?”

Geralt looked at him for a long moment like he’d lost his mind. And to be fair, Jaskier had to admit that it was another one of his poorly thought out plans. But he  _ did  _ have a plan, and that was what mattered, really. He watched Geralt expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Deal,” Geralt said finally, drawing his own sword. “Try not to stab yourself, please.”

Now, Jaskier knew there was no way he could beat Geralt in a fair fight. The man was a  _ Witcher _ , for gods’ sakes. But he knew that Geralt was going to go easy on him, for one, and he also didn’t plan on fighting fair. 

Jaskier remembered a little more of his fencing than he was letting on, and definitely enough to get under Geralt’s guard. He caught Geralt’s first strike on his own blade, earning himself a grudgingly impressed  _ hmm  _ from the other man. The second strike, he dodged, taking the opportunity to step under his arm, closer to Geralt. 

The Witcher paused his blade when Jaskier touched his face with his free hand, saving Jaskier from what would’ve been a painful smack with the flat of his blade. 

Before Geralt could decide whether or not to move, Jaskier kissed him. 

It wasn’t his best plan, he could admit, but as distractions went, Jaskier knew from experience that kissing worked nine times out of ten. He was hoping to stun Geralt into dropping his sword (and taste his lips, if only just the once) so that he could win the match, but he hadn’t counted on Geralt’s active participation.

Jaskier almost dropped  _ his  _ sword when Geralt kissed him back. 

Geralt’s lips were surprisingly smooth under his, and Jaskier lost himself in the slick push and pull of the kiss for a moment. Geralt kissed like a drowning man, like he could pull all the air out of Jaskier’s lungs with only his mouth. Like Jaskier was his oxygen. Like he  _ needed  _ Jaskier. 

Jaskier gasped against Geralt’s mouth, losing his mind when Geralt wrapped his arm around his waist to pull him tighter against Geralt’s body. Geralt’s other hand came up to tangle in Jaskier’s hair, and distantly, Jaskier heard the thud of a sword hitting the ground. 

The small part of his brain that wasn’t melting out of his ears reminded him what was happening, but it took a lot of willpower to pull away. Flushed and panting, he stumbled a few steps away and leveled his sword at Geralt.

“I win,” he breathed, smirking wickedly. “You lose.”

Geralt stared at him for a whole minute, amber eyes barely blinking. With a growl, he batted Jaskier’s sword away, hard enough that it went flying somewhere into the underbrush. Geralt stalked towards him, and Jaskier spared a quick prayer to any eavesdropping gods to make his death, at the very least, quick.

Geralt kissing him soundly was a welcome surprise. He tumbled them to the ground (not that Jaskier was complaining at all), pinning Jaskier with his bulk. Jaskier was pretty sure he was going to die from a lack of oxygen to his brain, but he welcomed death if it came in the form of Geralt’s kiss. 

When Geralt shifted to bite and suck a trail down his neck, Jaskier breathed, “Wait, should we talk about this?”

Geralt lifted his head to glare at him, though there was no disguising the fondness in his gaze. “Shut up, Jaskier.”

“Shutting up, shutting up,” Jaskier keened as Geralt set back to his task, and there wasn’t much talking after that.

**Author's Note:**

> i had to physically restrain myself from having jaskier call himself geralt's trophy bard at several points during this fic
> 
> comments and kudos make me a happy writer!


End file.
